


Two's Company, Three's a Crowd

by nameloc_ar_115



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Derek Hale, Experienced Stiles Stilinski, Getting Together, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Protective Stiles, Second Chances, Spooning, Tenderness, Threesome - M/M/M (sorta), Top Stiles Stilinski, Topping from the Bottom, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>1. used to indicate that two people, especially lovers, should be left alone together. 2. One companion is better than two.</em>
</p><p>An alternate ending to 4x01, where the pack finds Derek split into both his adult and sixteen-year-old self at La Iglesia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two's Company, Three's a Crowd

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Latch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1922469) by [ADevilsHunger (Dream_tempo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/ADevilsHunger). 



> I'm playing with the timeline a little bit, so just to clarify, Derek is taken about two months after the events of 3x24. In the show, it seems like Derek is taken soon after the defeat of the nogitsune, but I wanted to stretch it out so that Stiles' and Derek's sexual/romantic relationship had more time to develop.
> 
> Also, for the sake of giving credit where credit is due, the dialogue from the scene in the vet clinic is taken directly from 4x01, and therefore, is Jeff Davis' words, who wrote the episode. Those words are not mine, but I liked how the scene still aligned with my reimagining.

                Normally, Stiles wouldn’t have been concerned when Scott told him that Derek hadn’t been answering his texts.

                After all, the pack was still decompressing and recovering from an accumulation of painful and trying events. Allison’s death, Aiden’s death, Isaac and Argent and Ethan leaving, his own de-possession. Sadly, Stiles could go on for hours about the list of things he and his friends were trying to overcome. 

                But, as Deaton had told Scott, things couldn’t be all bad all the time. In the last several weeks, since that night at the high school, the scale had been tipping back towards the middle.

                After containing the nogitsune once again, storing it safely within the mountain ash confines of the Hale box, they reunited outside of the high school. Scott and Lydia each wrapped one of Stiles’ arms around their shoulders to steady him, as he was still weak due to his abrupt severance from the nogitsune. Stiles never thought he would feel so whole after being split in two.

                The banshee was crying softly, trembling under Stiles’ arm but pushing through the grief and bone-tiredness for now. As they all did, until they could retire to the privacy of their homes. Another lost friend. Sometimes the freshest grief was better suffered alone. They would let its raw sharpness and lethality fade, slashing and gouging at their own hearts and minds first, and then they would share the diluted, softened pain with one another.

                Kira followed behind the group, still wielding her katana _,_ unsure what else to do. Isaac was holding the triskelion box with the utmost care as they walked down the steps of the high school to join Derek and Ethan. The remaining twin looked dreadful, the black pool of his brother’s blood having soaked into his knees and his shirt where he had been holding Aiden. Derek and Ethan carried the body back to the former’s Toyota.

                Isaac went with Derek. To help or maybe to say goodbye. Derek had always been relatively intuitive, a consequence of listening and watching more than speaking. He probably already knew Isaac’s intention to leave.  

                One by one, Scott drove them home in Stiles’ Jeep. Lydia and Kira first and then him. He offered Scott the spare bedroom to crash in so that he wouldn’t have to leave the Jeep and walk, but Scott was anxious to check on his mom. Plus, he had that handy, supernatural speed to ease the journey.  

                Stiles called his dad from the kitchen, still feeling shaky enough that he needed to sit down for a minute at the table. The Sheriff was still righting the police station after the Oni’s attack, tending to dead deputies and the seemingly endless trend of property destruction. He promised to be home in a few hours and told his son no less than four times that he loved him.

                Stiles took a shower and settled onto his bed, feeling twitchy in the silence, utterly exhausted but too wired with adrenaline to sleep. He closed his eyes when a breeze stirred, shifting his curtains and tickling across his face.

                This close to summer, Stiles always left his window open at night, romanced by the stridulation of crickets and the scent of the evening. The night had been calm and without wind, so Stiles knew the gust of air had been provoked. Someone crawling in through his window.

                Derek’s breaths were uneven, and he looked unraveled in a way Stiles had never seen him, not when the Alpha pack threatened him every week, when Boyd and Erica died, when Cora was sick. He stood at the end of Stiles’ bed and gasped, “I can’t take this anymore.”

                Stiles didn’t needed an explanation. He incorporated Derek’s words into the marrow of his bones and the ache of his core, like they were essential. All he said in return was “I can’t either.”

                It wasn’t like it had been with Malia. She held a special place in his heart, just like Scott and Lydia did. He cared for her, and the fact that they had trusted one another to be each other’s first partners tethered them in some inevitable way. But they had both agreed that night in Eichen House that being friends was what they wanted. Malia was so new to this world, not ready to commit to anything when she had barely experienced life. Meanwhile, Stiles had already committed himself years ago.

                Derek was gentle but unyielding. The lightness of his touches made Stiles breathless, arching his body into Derek’s hands and mouth and cock, begging for something more tangible.            

                There was no turning back after that. Stiles slept a few times at Derek’s loft when he was too tired to drive home and his dad was working a late shift. It was still technically illegal for another six months for Derek to be sleeping with him, so they were careful. The pack knew, and once the shock subsided, they seemed happy for them. Actually, the shock seemed to be more attributed to the _when_ of their union rather than the _if._  

                Derek ignoring Scott’s texts and Derek ignoring _his_ texts were two different matters. No, Derek didn’t have a personality transplant overnight once they started seeing each other. He was still Derek. Sometimes he needed his own space, and Stiles did, too. But he always replied, even if it was just to check in. It had now been several days, and Stiles still hadn’t heard back from the wolf.

                Stiles had gone to the loft after the first few days of silence, but Derek hadn’t answered. He was having a hard time thinking about the situation objectively. As a boyfriend, he worried that he was being too clingy, too suffocating, and that coming over to Derek’s loft was just reinforcing that fear.

                He bit the bullet and texted Derek again anyways. Too much weird shit happened to them for Stiles to leave it alone.

                _Haven’t heard from you. Just reply, so I know you’re alive._

It was supposed to sound hyperbolic or sarcastic, but a few more days ticked by without a word from Derek, and then Stiles’ message started to become a little too ominous, a little too relevant to the developing situation.

                Scott mentioning that Derek hadn’t returned any of his texts was the final straw, the culmination of Stiles’ concern and anxiety that had been gnawing at him for the last week. A week without a trace of the wolf. Derek wouldn’t be so thoughtless, would never make the people who cared for him worry so much.

                By that point, stress had embedded itself into the lines around his mouth, caked itself over the dark stains under Stiles’ eyes like cheap, powdery makeup. He didn’t sleep much, and the bruises under his bottom eyelids reminded him too much of the nogitsune.

                Some of this must have been evident because Scott accompanied him to the loft without any fuss or resistance. Without a key, Scott mangled the lock in order to open the door. Just a bit. But priorities and life and death and all that. Derek had nothing good to steal anyway.

                Derek was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the loft looked unremarkably normal until Stiles saw something gleam in the sunlight. Something brass. He and Scott found over a dozen casings scattered throughout the living room and bedroom. There were no other irregularities, nothing else to reveal where Derek could be or what trouble he might have gotten into.

                They recruited the people who were always the most useful in such situations: Deaton and Lydia. Deaton recognized the symbol of the skull on the casings as belonging to the Calaveras, a family of hunters like the Argents. And Lydia…well, she had a knack for finding dead bodies, but Stiles was doing his best to shove that thought far away.

                Trying, but ultimately, failing. He started to intensely dislike the phrase, “bite the bullet,”as he stared at all of the empty casings. He had thought of the very expression only days ago. Maybe the bullets had bitten Derek instead.  

                “You don’t think they killed him, do you?” Stiles asked tremulously at the animal clinic.

                “I don’t know,” Scott admitted, his voice quiet. His best friend’s eyes moved from him to Lydia. “That’s why you’re here.”

                Lydia sighed in frustration, not out of reluctance to help, but because she still had virtually no control over her banshee abilities and even less understanding about them. But she would try, for him, for Derek.

                She pushed her hand into the metal canister holding the casings, grabbing a handful, the sound like a rush of pennies being dropped into a jar. Lydia rolled them around her palm, her eyes closing, and then they dropped with a metallic clang onto the examination table.

                Stiles wrung his hands together impatiently. “Lydia, what? Is he dead?”   

                “No,” the banshee answered, her voice distant, like she was contemplating something. Something she heard. He felt a surge of relief shoot through his veins, fast-acting and potent like a drug. _Hope._ “But I’m not sure he’s alive either,” Lydia finished.

                Scott blinked, his lips parting, poised to speak once he could collect his thoughts. “What does that mean?”

                “I don’t know.” Lydia’s voice was troubled, and she was gazing into the blankness of the tabletop, searching for answers. “There’s something not right. I just…I don’t know.”

                Stiles exhaled deeply and closed his eyes, momentarily clearing his mind. He needed to think, to be productive and useful. They needed a plan. “So, if the Calaveras have him, how do we find them?”

                Scott picked up one of the fallen casings from the table, examining the engraving on its side. “Mexico,” he stated.

* * *

                Stiles didn’t really start breathing again until he saw Braeden towing a weary, dust-covered Derek through the doors of La Iglesia. The weight in his chest truly didn’t leave until the wolf’s eyes caught his.

                But then Scott emerged, helping another figure out through the precarious ruins of the church. The Alpha’s face was awash with astonishment, and Stiles quickly realized why.

                The person hanging off Scott’s shoulder was undeniably, unequivocally _Derek._ A shorter, younger version—perhaps his and Scott’s age—but definitely Derek. The resemblance was inarguable.

                “Derek looks—” Kira paused, her eyes tracking from one Derek to the other, “— _they_ look exhausted. Maybe we should get them in the Jeep, and then we can try to figure this out on the drive back.”

                “Yeah,” Stiles agreed absentmindedly. The shock from the inexplicable sight in front of them had worn off, and he sprinted forward. The impact of his body colliding with the older Derek’s sent up a small cloud of dust and dirt from the wolf’s clothing.

                He hugged his wolf tightly, feeling a large, warm hand cup the back of his neck. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed and kissed Derek for all he was worth.

                “I had to do that,” Stiles whispered, panting against Derek’s lips, petting over his bearded cheeks.

                “It’s alright. I’m alright. You found me.” The wolf breathed out slowly and tipped their foreheads together.

* * *

                A lot of mystery and unanswered questions surrounded the double Dereks. The older Derek couldn’t remember anything after being shot by Kate in his loft. Over a week, completely wiped from his memory. Until Scott punched through the wall of the tomb, Derek hadn’t even been cognizant enough to recognize where he was or that he was sharing the space with another person.

                They told Deaton all they knew once they returned to Beacon Hills, and he was checking a few leads and unnamed references, but nothing substantial had turned up yet. Including Kate.

                Mostly, older Derek was trying to assimilate younger Derek to the present time and fill in the nine-year gap between them. Stiles didn’t ask what the wolf had told his sixteen-year-old self, but he noticed that the younger Derek seemed substantially more glum after his first night at the loft.

                On nights when his Derek came over to his house, a.k.a. crept through his bedroom window, Stiles would ask what he and the younger Derek did together. The wolf would always reply, “we talk.” Every time, with the same level of vagueness. The one time Stiles had dared to ask _what_ they talked about, Derek had smiled a rare, wicked grin that made him incredibly nervous.

* * *

                His dad had to pull a double shift, so naturally, Stiles texted Derek that night to see if he would come over. He would bring his dad food at the beginning of his second shift to assuage some of the guilt he felt for hiding his relationship with Derek from him. Absolutely no curly fries, but maybe a lean chicken sandwich instead of the veggie burgers his father had come to loathe.

                A few minutes later, Derek leapt through the window into a graceful tumble that allowed him to land on his feet. Show-off. The more unpredictable part was that the second Derek clambered into his room after him, although with less elegance than his older self.

                It was both reassuring and a little sweet to know that Derek had to grow into his stealth and agility like the rest of the teenage population. The younger Derek was shyer and more reserved, if the latter was even possible for Derek. Stiles bled inside for the sixteen-year-old Derek who had known his family and his friends and the fun, carefree attitude that a teenager should possess. All of it torn away in a horrible flash.

                He could see it in the way he and the rest of the pack treated the younger Derek. They wanted to help him heal, but above all, they wanted to protect him. Even though this was temporary, and his younger self would have to merge back together with his older one at some point.

                “Hi.” He kissed his Derek, simply, much more appropriately than he had intended. The whole situation hurt Stiles’ head because he treated the double Dereks like two different people, when in actuality, they were both still Derek.

                “Hey, Derek.” Stiles gave the younger Derek a gentle smile and a nod. Once, he accidentally called him “baby Derek” to his face, and the poor teen blushed so deeply that Stiles felt empathetically embarrassed for him. The other Derek had just scowled in Stiles’ direction.

                In conversation, the younger Derek was always “Derek” and the older Derek was always “Der” because Stiles could take the liberty to use nicknames with his boyfriend. It was still confusing, and sometimes he would switch the names by accident, the wrong version of Derek responding. It was a work in progress.

                “What’s up?” It wasn’t exactly a common occurrence for Derek to bring…himself…with him to Stiles’ house. Especially not when the intent for sex had been clearly established.       

                “We need to talk to you,” his Derek stated, taking a seat in Stiles’ computer chair. The other Derek was still standing awkwardly in front of the window, perhaps ready to jump back out of it at any moment. It didn’t make Stiles any less nervous.

                His boyfriend wasn’t the loquacious type, and the fact that he had willingly and _intentionally_ come here to have a conversation that _he_ initiated…well, the possibilities were dizzying. It had to be one hell of a discussion topic.

                “Ooo-kay,” Stiles answered hesitantly, sitting back down on his bed.

                Derek looked at his younger self and nodded. The other swallowed tightly and crossed his arms over his chest.

                “I thought I might have loved Kate, and if anyone else would have tried to tell me what she was going to do…” The teen paused, pinched his eyelids closed before blinking them back open. “What she _did_ , I probably wouldn’t have believed them. But I trust myself, and I know now, that my feelings for her were based on lies.”

                Stiles had never heard either Derek talk with such purpose, and he saw the boy’s hands trembling at his sides, making Stiles’ heart squeeze. He bit his lips to quiet himself; he wouldn’t dare interrupt such a fragile moment.

                “Apparently, what I have with you is real. I’ve been told that I love you.” Derek’s eyes flicked to his older self. “I don’t know what will happen to me when you fix us. If I go back to the past or disappear altogether, but I want…” The teen’s mouth snapped shut, and the muscles at the hinge of his jaw flexed. He looked so pained and vulnerable that Stiles just wanted to pull him close, comfort him.

                “Kate hasn’t slept with him yet.”

                Stiles’ eyes widened once he fully realized the scope of their proposition. “You mean…he’s—you want me to—” He was reeling with the overflow of information from the last two minutes. Derek _loved_ him. Derek’s sixteen-year-old self wanted him to take his virginity. Stiles couldn’t make up things like this even if he tried.               

                Derek wheeled the chair closer to the side of Stiles’ bed so that he could take his hand. “Stiles, this isn’t a demand or an ultimatum. There are no expectations. It’s entirely up to you.”

                “It’s just…a lot,” Stiles breathed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m still trying to process everything.” Derek squeezed his hand in reassurance and gave him a sympathetic half-smile.

                “It’s okay. This was my idea, not his. I hope you’re not insulted.” The younger Derek’s expression was sheepish and shameful, the tendons in his hands prominent as he tried to inconspicuously clench the hem of his shirt.

                “ _No_ , no, god. Of course not. I mean—are you _sure_? That you want me to do this? Now?” His Derek was forced to live with the memories of Kate’s manipulations, everything she stole from him and destroyed. But sixteen-year-old Derek didn’t have to endure the same fate. In some convoluted way, it could be a second chance for both of them.

                “I am. I’m sure,” the younger Derek insisted, his voice going slightly reedy with desperation at the end. It hadn’t quite reached the depth of his older self’s yet.

                “Okay, well, you should probably know that I love you two…too.” Stiles gulped, probably too loudly. Everything was audible with damn werewolves around.

                His Derek pacified the stuttered racing of his heart, cupping his face and pulling him into a long, immodest kiss with propulsions of tongue and soft hums of pleasure.

                Stiles pulled away and murmured, “Are you okay with this? It’s a deal-breaker if you’re not.”

                “It’s still me. I remember… _being_ him. How gutted I was when I learned everything with Kate had been a game.” Words were even harder for a twenty-five-year-old Derek. “I wish I had found you when I was sixteen.”

                Stiles’ smile was bittersweet as he stroked through Derek’s hair. He took some of Derek’s pain to himself, and it pricked his eyes, made them water. “God, this is weird.” He glanced over to the younger Derek. “Do you mind if he stays?”

                “No. I want him to.” Derek looked surprised by his younger self’s confession.

                “Well, come over here. I won’t bite.” Stiles patted the spot beside him on the bed and watched the other Derek’s legs wobble in indecision before he approached.

                The teen sat down stiffly, looking at his hands and flicking the occasional sideways glance at Stiles.

                “There’s no reason to be nervous,” Stiles encouraged softly. “We can do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

                The younger Derek barely lifted his head from his lap. The heavy slope to his shoulders had Stiles thinking maybe this wasn’t the right time. He was ready to call it off when his boyfriend spoke.

                “He wants to kiss you.” When his younger self’s head flew upwards to look at him, Derek continued. “He’s told me that he dreams of your mouth.” Even with his subpar human senses, Stiles could hear the quick, shallow breaths coming from the teen next to him.

                Stiles smiled and gingerly touched the boy’s shoulder, coaxing his eyes up to his own. “Is that true?”

                Sixteen-year-old Derek nodded, almost imperceptibly, his eyes wide. Stiles placed one hand against the teen’s cheek and scooted closer, pressing their lips together. The kiss was innocent and tame, and Stiles couldn’t help but notice that both Dereks’ lips were so soft and prettily pink. Although, it was strange not to feel the bristly rub of a beard against his chin and his cheeks. This Derek was clean-shaven but still had the same heavy eyebrows and thick, dark hair.

                Stiles relished how the boy’s eyes were all pupil, how winded he seemed after a few kisses. He was sensitive and handsome, and his most sensual touch had been cupping Stiles’ elbows while they kissed. When they pulled apart, Stiles’ eyes slid over to his Derek’s in curiosity, to catch his reaction.

                The older Derek stared back at him, his gaze unwavering, and said, “You should undress Stiles.” The words were soft and even, too controlled. His eyes gave him away, dark and enticed, identically hazel to the boy’s in front of him.

                The younger Derek switched his glance between the two of them, glistening lips parting before he stuttered out, “Can I?”

                “Yeah, you can.” In his boldest movement yet, the teen removed Stiles’ top, taking extra care to free his head. With painstaking attention, he maneuvered the fabric around Stiles’ nose and ears and chin, ensuring that nothing caught or tangled.

                Stiles bit his lip to hold back another smile, his chest tight and warm with affection. His Derek was conscientious and loving, but he possessed a confidence that sixteen-year-old Derek didn’t. A confidence that not only came with age and experience but from knowing Stiles for the last three years. They had been friends before lovers and allies before that. This Derek had only known him for a matter of weeks, and he handled Stiles with a reticence that blurred into reverence.

                The teen’s hands shook as he removed Stiles’ pants, cradling each ankle in his lap while he eased them over Stiles’ feet. When Stiles was finally naked, Derek’s eyes lingered on the expanse of bare skin. His face flushed guiltily when he realized that Stiles was watching him as well.

                “You can touch, if you want,” Stiles offered quietly, lightly.

                Derek’s hands settled flat against the crest of each hipbone, moving down the ridges to reunite at the soft skin underneath Stiles’ navel, where a trail of hair dipped towards the base of his cock. He explored the rest of Stiles’ front with tender touches, the heels of his hands brushing innocuously over Stiles’ nipples, making him inhale and shiver.

                “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Stiles was so absorbed in the moment that he had forgotten the other Derek was sitting only a few feet away, taking in the sight of them. Stiles hadn’t anticipated his voice, almost booming in contrast to the stillness of the room.

                The teenaged Derek nodded so enthusiastically in response it would have been ridiculous if it hadn’t been so darling. “You’re amazing. And—you’re really ours? I-I mean, _his—_ Not that you _belong_ to anyone, of course. Jesus.” When he finished, his voice was so small that Stiles could barely hear him.

                Stiles sat up and leaned in to kiss Derek who was still kneeling between his splayed legs. “I’m all yours.” He smiled. “Can I help you take these off?” He tugged at the sleeve of the teen’s shirt for emphasis, and the boy nodded.

                As he uncovered this Derek, it was impossible not to compare his body to the other one’s. Some things were still the same. The dense layer of hair coating his forearms and legs, the coarse thatch at his groin. He still had the same bulk to his biceps and thighs although it wasn’t as pronounced.

                Stiles pressed a kiss over the teen’s sternum, rubbed his cheek against the silky skin that was without the dusting of chest hair Stiles was used to. He braced himself over Derek’s body with a hand on the boy’s abdomen, still flat and toned, but the muscles not nearly as defined. He was vividly attractive, even as he reached the tail end of puberty. Maybe that should have been daunting, but Stiles was reaping all of the benefits, so he couldn’t complain too much.

                “How do you want me?” The younger Derek’s cheeks pinked while his boyfriend’s nostrils flared and his body shuffled minimally in the computer chair. It was a strange dichotomy to witness.

                The teen moved behind him to arrange and fluff the pillows so that Stiles could lean his back comfortably against them. “You are the sweetest fucking thing,” Stiles whispered. He kissed the boy softly once Derek settled into his lap, perched over top of Stiles’ perking cock with his knees planted on either side of Stiles’ hips. Derek’s face was blazing with heat under his palms, and the teen made a small noise when Stiles’ tongue licked over his teeth.

                “I want you inside of me. Like this. Is this okay?” Derek whispered anxiously, those familiar hazel eyes flitting across his face. Stiles gawked for a few seconds. He had just assumed that the teen would want to fuck him. He was awestruck, delighted.  

                “This is perfect,” Stiles assured, his hand a comforting weight on the boy’s hip. “But we need lube.”

                “Let me.” The older Derek pushed himself up from the chair and knowingly fetched the bottle of lube from the bottom drawer of Stiles’ desk, buried under old notebooks and miscellany. His Derek called him paranoid, but under no circumstances did Stiles want his father to find it.

                His boyfriend dropped the bottle into his hand with a coy quirk of his lips. The wolf kissed him, subdued and longingly, but he understood that his own affections could wait.

                “Could you drizzle some over my fingers?” The younger Derek popped the cap open with a crack, having to shake the bottle first since it was only half full. The liquid curled and dripped sluggishly down Stiles’ fingers like cool syrup.

                Derek shuddered at the coolness as Stiles pressed those wetted fingers against the boy’s asshole, rubbing gentle circles around the tight, nervous muscle. From time to time, he’d let his warm, dry thumb prod softly at the teen’s perineum.  

                “He’s squirming for it, Stiles,” the other Derek announced huskily. “Look at how his hips chase your hand. He’s played with himself enough to know that he likes having something fill him, stretch him taut.”

                The teen in his lap whimpered, canted his ass higher, begging for Stiles to let a finger slip inside where he desperately needed it. Stiles didn’t tease him much longer, pushing one digit into a hot and silky interior. The younger Derek gasped sharply and leaned forward to drop his head onto Stiles’ shoulder.

                He was caged in by Derek, whose arms bracketed his face to grip the headboard. The teen wriggled on Stiles’ fingers, small jerks of his hips that betrayed his inexperience. Frantic to fuck himself but unsure how, testing the best angle and slide of Stiles’ fingers.          

                Stiles tapped against the boy’s prostate, having barely enough room to crook his fingers with how sweetly Derek clung around them. Derek released a small whine, and Stiles heard the protesting creak of his wooden headboard. All of the boy’s noises were hushed and strained, as if he were ashamed to let them escape at all, let alone at their most enthusiastic levels.  

                Stiles kissed the thin skin of Derek’s throat, the teen’s face still buried in the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Are you ready?” The boy shivered against him, moaning so that a moist plume of breath hit Stiles’ skin.

                “Look at me, please,” Stiles murmured, luring Derek’s face out of its hiding spot. “I need you to tell me. I don’t want to hurt you. Never like this.” He glanced over the boy’s head to look at his boyfriend slouching in the computer chair with his legs spread casually. The wolf gave him a tender, secret smile, his eyes turned down towards the floor so that Stiles couldn’t see anything but the fan of his dark lashes. He still knew it was meant for him.  

                The younger Derek licked over his lips briefly. “I want you to put your cock in me.” The audacious words were accompanied by a feverish flush to the boy’s face. Stiles tipped their mouths together. Derek was such a beautiful kisser, generous and delicate. His body blossomed and opened under Stiles’ touches, losing some of its self-doubt and restraint.

                The teen squirted a dollop of lube onto the head of Stiles’ dick and worked it down to the base. Stiles groaned at the faint friction, but it was over too soon for him to really enjoy the sensation. Derek’s thighs trembled, either from muscle fatigue or trepidation, as he raised himself higher over Stiles’ lap.

                There were a few seconds of difficulty where the head of Stiles’ dick was breaching Derek’s resistant little hole. The boy inhaled sharply and winced as it popped past his fluttering rim, biting his bottom lip. Stiles’ stomach hollowed, and he let Derek rest, trying to ignore the intense hug of Derek’s body.

                “I’m sorry. The hard part’s over now,” Stiles promised, combing through the teen’s hair. “Are you alright?”

                “Yes. It wasn’t your fault.”

                “Do you feel nice and full?” He kissed across Derek’s chest and tugged at the boy’s cock, sweetening any residual pain. “If you don’t want anymore, I could just fondle your pretty cock until you come.”

                “No…I-I’m okay,” Derek panted, his belly tensing as Stiles continued to pet his dick. “It hurt at first, but it doesn’t anymore.”

                “Good. I want to make you feel so good.”

                “You could tease his nipples. That always makes his cock drool.” The older Derek sighed from across the room, and when Stiles looked, he found him palming the bulge of his hard dick, a little bigger than the one Stiles was jerking right now.

                Maybe this was the reason Derek wanted his older self here, to communicate the things that he couldn’t bring himself to ask for. A mediator between his younger self and Stiles.   

                Stiles moaned at the sight of his boyfriend, something deep and primal in his gut igniting, causing his hips to jump without his volition. A feeble, cracking cry escaped the younger Derek’s mouth, and Stiles clutched the back of his neck gently in apology.  

                “No, no,” Derek breathed, shaking his head with indecision, his eyes closed tightly. “That felt…please, do that again.”

                Stiles’ eyes were glued onto the older Derek, his mind practically melting from the phenomenon of one Derek sinking down onto him, swallowing inch after inch of his cock, and the other massaging his balls through the unforgiving denim of his jeans. Stiles imagined that he had done something miraculous in a past life to receive such an opportunity.

                Their rhythm was halting, but Stiles couldn’t care less. The teenaged Derek mewled under his breath, high and tight, whenever Stiles grazed his fragile insides. He behaved as if Stiles were giving him some huge, unwarranted, beautiful gift, and it made him want to shelter the boy in his arms for a long time. Possibly forever.

                He whispered and gasped praise into the boy’s ear, probably still loud enough for the older Derek to hear. Not that it mattered. The words were transferrable, applicable to both Dereks. How lovely he was, and sweet and deserving. How magnificent he felt and made Stiles feel in return.

                Stiles didn’t like to refer to them as sweet nothings. His lack of a verbal filter made it nearly impossible for him to lie in moments of vulnerability; if anything, he was probably horribly honest and forthright during sex. He didn’t adhere to the notion of spewing pretty words at someone he slept with if he didn’t mean them. It would be much easier to just say nothing at all. With Derek, Stiles privately thought of them as sweet somethings. It was awful and lovesick, but he couldn’t help it.

                Stiles heeded older Derek’s advice because, honestly, who would know better about what Derek liked than…himself. He let the teenaged Derek bounce and writhe on his cock as hard as he wanted, as fast as he wanted, with little more interference than holding onto him for support.

                Sitting with his legs straight out in front of him gave Stiles little leverage, and he feared that planting his feet would upend Derek. And while Stiles recognized that he was often neither smooth nor sexy, he had no desire to catapult his lover off the bed.

                Stiles slithered one hand up the boy’s sleek back, allowing it to settle between his shoulder blades. His palm rubbed restlessly and his fingertips searched the skin, looking for some texture that was absent.

                The tattoo. Derek hadn’t gotten it yet. One of Stiles’ favorite lazy, post-coital pastimes included running the pads of his fingers over the raised edges of Derek’s triskele.

                The younger Derek’s breaths were truly ragged now, Stiles sucking at his nipples, flicking his tongue over them until they peaked and hardened, turning the color of Derek’s abused, kiss-bitten lips.

                When Derek’s pace become too unwieldy—he must’ve found that treasured, _perfect_ angle of both his hips and Stiles’ cock—Stiles had a hard time latching onto a nipple, so he gathered the boy close in one arm and jacked him off with the other. For a virgin, Derek was lasting gorgeously.

                Once again, Stiles felt compelled to peek at his Derek. The proceedings must have agreed with him because he had unzipped his jeans, freeing his cock and stroking himself unhurriedly, purposefully. His eyes were dark and heated, and Stiles’ hand slipped slightly on the film of sweat along the younger Derek’s spine.

                Stiles’ mouth parted, choking silently on a moan, and his eyes closed and fluttered open sporadically, watching his other (only) lover over the boy’s shoulder.

                Like a domino effect, the Derek in his lap instigated an orgasmic chain reaction. The teen seized up and released a strangled wail, dropping on Stiles’ cock in rapid, hard little bursts of motion. The sheer power of his muscles rippling around Stiles pulled him over the edge as well, pumping Derek full of come as the last of the boy’s release splattered across his wrist and torso. Meanwhile, Stiles heard a subvocal growl through the loud pounding of his heart and saw his boyfriend shoot an ample amount of thick, white come onto his own belly, having had the forethought to hike his shirt up to his armpits.

                Stiles slumped and breathed, propping his head against his still-intact headboard. He mentally high-fived himself. Like his lube, there were just some things he didn’t want to try to explain to his father. The younger Derek was swallowing and collecting his breaths with a hazy smile on his face. _Ah._ His first orgasm prompted by someone else. It was a magical thing.

                Stiles cradled the boy’s face and dragged him in for a slow, aching kiss. He felt unbearably content when the younger Derek rested their foreheads together.

                So as not to startle them, the older wolf said quietly, “I’ll get a towel from the bathroom.”

                Derek pulled himself off of Stiles’ cock with another wince before collapsing onto his back, his soft belly and chest rising evenly. “Thank you.” The teen smiled softly, a peaceful flow to his words.

                “Shh,” Stiles cooed, planting a kiss to Derek’s knee. “You never have to thank me for this.”

                The other Derek returned, cleaner than before, with a damp towel in his hands. Stiles took it with an appreciative smile and wiped the come off of his front. He slunk down between Derek’s open legs and cleared away the trail of his own come that was oozing out of the boy. He swiped gently over Derek’s cock and rim, the skin still swollen and tender with use, and he watched the reflexive curl and twitch of the teen’s toes.

                Stiles hid the evidence at the bottom of his laundry basket in the bathroom. He always did the laundry, but it never paid to be sloppy and arrogant when his father was the Sheriff. Detailed observations were literally part of his dad’s job description.

                When Stiles returned, the Dereks were occupying various degrees of undress. The younger had covered himself in his underwear and t-shirt once again. The older had taken off both his shirt and his jeans, now wearing nothing but a snug pair of briefs. Most nights, he boycotted underwear, but maybe he wore them out of propriety for his younger self. Not that that made any sense at all, but Stiles was beyond deciphering this mess right now.

                Stiles himself was dressed similarly to sixteen-year-old Derek, sporting his earlier boxers and a soft night shirt.

                “I have to take my dad food at midnight. I’ve set an alarm,” he stated, slipping behind the younger Derek. The boy made a pleased hum when Stiles molded himself to his back, snaking his arm underneath Derek’s to wrap around the boy’s chest. Derek intertwined their fingers loosely, easily, wiggling backwards against Stiles until he was snug and comfy.

                The older Derek followed suit, curling in behind Stiles, his hand sliding under his boyfriend’s shirt to flatten against the warmth of Stiles’ stomach. “When do we need to be out of here?” His words slurred, his face pressed into Stiles’ nape.

                “Mmm…” Stiles sighed unhelpfully, savoring his current position as the center of a Derek-werewolf sandwich. He was also immensely grateful that he had upgraded from a twin to a double bed a few years ago. “Seven o’clock.”

                “Okay,” the wolf replied, kissing behind Stiles’ ear before settling down to find his own comfortable position to sleep.

                Stiles was hopelessly entangled in adult and teen wolf limbs, and he had never been happier. If this whole supernatural mishap had confirmed anything, it was that Stiles loved the person sleeping next to him.     


End file.
